Bring Me To Life
by ThatTheaterFan
Summary: Enjolras is a known lawyer in all of Paris, who's secretly conducting conferences about reforming the government with the Les Amis. Everything seems okay until he accepts two cases that would change his life forever. Eponine is a girl, only existing through life and lives by her dangerous routine. Their lives intertwine as both finds themselves clashing. (Moved to T)
1. Prologue

**Bring Me to Life**

**"There is nothing like a dream to create the future." - Victor Hugo**

* * *

**Prologue:**

Shattered glasses, broken stairs; Hopeless glances, fiery glares.

What does someone think of at the least of their hope? When everything he fought for, ended in pain. When everything he dreamt of, was dying in vain. _Sacrifice_. That's what he thought. That maybe when all of them were gone, few would awaken and take up their places. _Regret_. Maybe if he could have done better, the people would've rose; maybe if he spoke better, he would have persuaded them enough; maybe if he planned better, they wouldn't have been defeated. Maybe all of his hard work was futile.

Sounds of gunshot have made a coward of men, or so they said.

At the barricades, everyone tried their best to put on their respective brave faces. Trying to conceal, and forget everything that stood before them. Their cowardice was covered by their glares against the monarchy, and as they glance up in the sky, they could see the New Republic. They grasped the red flag and waved it, with much pride for their country. But even a brilliant man could be a fool.

How could he not have seen this?

Was he engrossed too much in his desires for the 'people'?

Had he selfishly sacrificed the lives of his friends?

Did his golden tongue do nothing but awaken their false hope?

On the top of the Café, he once stood valiantly. Being the great orator, and charismatic leader that he is; he awakened the passion of his people. But the people of Paris were too afraid. Mere words cannot help them foresee the better life. Or perhaps they were too cunning to not risk their very lives.

But wasn't it? When law becomes injustice, revolution becomes a right?

Wasn't it, when whispers die, shouts were needed to be heard?

But right now, he didn't know what to believe. Hence why, he believed in anything. The barriers that his mind closed from other opinions whether foolish or brilliant, has now opened its course. Wasn't there a saying that when you die, you'll live as another person similar to your previous life? If only that was true, he'd have another chance. Wasn't there a saying, that in heaven, the God above may give another chance to live? He was heavily relying on these, if ever they were true. For this was the first time he'd rely without evidence. _So this is faith. _

When the time came, and the national guards found him, he mustered up every single courage, pride and strength remaining in his body to grasp the red symbolical flag for one last time. The face of Pride and fulfillment swept across his face involuntarily as the guards released that one shot.

_One shot._

One shot was all it took to send him hanging through that window. The same window where he looked upon the horizon of Paris, and nodded to himself that hope is coming; the same window, where he watched the constellations that indicated spring returning; the same window, where he fell, and hanged with the red flag in his hands, looking at the skies with his last words. Words failed to express the emotion that backed up that silent prayer.

"Long live the Republic."

Up in the sky, he had seen everything that transpired before and after the barricades. How everyone suffered. How it was not only him and the Les Amis who hoped for the better future; but they doubted. The people doubted them. The King of heaven, the king that they did not oppose, saw his sorrowful and regretful glance that was directed towards the earth.

And then there's that one day when he woke up.

He was Gabriel Enjolras.

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**Drop your reviews people! :) What do you think of this?**


	2. Chapter I: Their Daily Lives

**A/N: Thanks for the review! **

**Nine Wilson Scott: Thank you! This is the update xD**

**EbonieCourfeyrac: Thanks for reading, and for the compliment thaaanks! 3**

* * *

**Bring Me to Life:**

**Those who live are those who fight. - Victor Hugo**

* * *

**Chapter I: Their Daily Lives**

* * *

The room was drenched in the color of ivory and crimson decorated with sandalwood, anywhere you'd look screams elegance. The moderate amount of sunlight peeked in from the translucent curtain; indicating morning. The birds chirped around the balcony, together making a peaceful and sweet sound. The skies opened up in warmth. It was not cold, nor was it hot. The sight of bookshelves that were painted in gold and draping with hardwood calmed him. This was enough to make the perfect morning.

Not until he sensed movement in his bed that definitely wasn't his.

His eyes turning from sleepy into wide-open as he carefully moved his head to see a girl, peacefully sleeping on _his _bed. His forehead creased into anger and confusion. What happened? Gabriel Enjolras tried to recollect the events of the previous night, and why there was a dull ache on his head. And in the blur memories, he somehow managed to pick up the images of bar, drinks and laughter. With the scene with Grantaire hanging his inebriated arm into his shoulder stating, "After-all, it's your birthday!"

_Courfeyrac opened the doors and welcomed the Les Amis, especially Enjolras; it was his birthday surprise. Loud music echoed through the moderately large room as there was a personal bartender, and rounds of drinks everywhere. There were women, too. He'd guess that each of them had a mistress or two in the heap of people that crowded the venue. "Is this really my birthday, or their pathetic excuse for a raging party," He scoffed as his brows creased into a familiar look of annoyance. _

_Courfeyrac and Grantaire found their way to the couch where Enjolras was sitting rather uncomfortably. They waited for him to state his opinions, but he instead glared at the cocktail drink that was given to him. "Enjolras, it won't be too bad!" Courfeyrac sat down, along with Grantaire, both beside Enjolras. He just didn't reply, and instead ordered the waiter to replace his martini with a glass of water. "Did you just do that? Come on, give yourself a break from all the work you've been doing. Drink with us!" Courfeyrac raised his glass, with Grantaire mimicking the action, except, it was without class. "Exactly! After-all, it's your birthday mon ami." He refused, once again. _

_He did not know how they managed to convince him, but it was probably that they played another of their sly trick. And after he's had his first drink, they probably tricked him; once again, for more._

Enjolras glared at his surroundings as he recalled that unfortunate memory. His eyes dropped over to the woman, girl, whatever they would call her. Her skin was olive, and the nightgown she was wearing was black; both painting a stark contrast against his ivory sheets, somehow paralleled to a chalk. Her brown-auburn hair was matted and wavy, which was probably because it was morning. Her complexion wasn't at all perfect. He's sure he had seen her somewhere. He just can't remember when, or where. He glared at her features. Not because he hated them. Because he was already infuriated by the fact that she's sleeping on his bed, and something might have happened the night before. _This is their entire fault._ Her eyes began to flutter. Brown orbs met that cold and azure glare.

"Get out." Were the first words that came from his mouth, his word filter was usually off during mornings; especially this morning wherein he doesn't get much time to think to himself.

Her eyes that bore into his weren't the smirking stare he was expecting. It was paralleled to his, but it contained more than a glare or mere infuriation. Her eyes were inhabited by pain, frustration, sorrow and anger. But just like smoke, it faded into something empty. "I'm sorry," she rasped with a voice barely above a whisper as she scurried away from the Les Amis' mansion. His glare turned into something a bit apologetic, but then faded back into annoyance.

* * *

"What the hell were you people thinking!" Enjolras' voice echoed through the library that Les Amis, including him liked to call their own. His books were dropped into a table heavily, as if they were a burden he was carrying. "What do you mean?" Joly asked, looking a bit in panic as the books hit the ground and the dust flew into the atmosphere. Grantaire or Courfeyrac weren't looking at Enjolras as he was sending icy glares to the two of them. "Why did I wake up, with a woman beside me?" He said in a breathy undertone. Grantaire cracked a secretive smile, "Enjolras was there anything that happened?" the question seemed a bit rhetorical to everyone, one that is not to be answered. "Enjolras, this was everyone's idea…" Courfeyrac tried to explain, but he wasn't getting a positive response from the subject.

"You too, Combeferre?" Enjolras glared at his great confidant. "Except for me, and Marius, maybe…" Combeferre shook his head calmly. "Listen, we were only trying to-"Grantaire's word was cut short by Enjolras' sudden change of aura. "Drop the issue, time is gold." Enjolras proceeded at the whiteboard in front of their library as he began to scribble down several diagrams. "Democracy isn't getting any better, than what we have been expecting in a Republic. In shorter terms, our government is having a dictatorship in disguise of democracy." He orated. "The Branches are being manipula-"

Marius came hurrying towards his seat.

"Marius you're late," Joly stated what's obvious, earning a nervous smile from Marius. "I'm sorry," Marius motioned as he placed his books carefully on the table. "What's wrong, you're as pale as a ghost!" Joly exclaimed, looking through his medical equipments, ready to check Marius' health. "Have some wine my friend!" Grantaire exclaimed, chuckling at Marius' deathly color. Enjolras raised his left brow at the commotion, focusing on what's currently happening. "My friends, you wouldn't believe what I've seen today!" his ghastly face lit up at the fortunate memories. "She's like a goddess that descended from the sky! Her hair is like sunshine and her teeth, dear God it's paralleled to the pearls of the sea! But Alas! As fast as I saw this goddess, is as fast as she was gone…" Marius' face faltered into a mix of somberness and joy. "Dear friend, you've been hanging around Jehan too much. Too much…" Bahorel witted.

"My friends, now is not the time of fooling around. We all decide what we do in life, but we've all took our wishes and pleasures aside for our dear country. If we'd only take a moment to understand the vitality of what we're doing…" Enjolras neared to the table, looking at everyone. "That we have a lot to sacrifice. That we aren't fighting for ourselves but for our country and ones who inhabit it." Marius looked at Enjolras directly, coming into his senses and nodding in chorus with everyone.

"As I was saying, the government manages to fool everyone about their protagonistic ways." Enjolras narrated through his whiteboard. "Combeferre will give you an overview of what's currently happening." On cue, Combeferre stood up and turned on his PowerPoint. "Democracy is being a misconception to almost everyone in our population, with the government poisoning the minds of our fellow citizens. It is somehow paralleled on how a child takes delight in sweets and junk food instead of being given the proper nutrition that our bodies need. The intake of these poison and the very slow symptoms makes most people blind in a semi-totality. And as day passes, their condition will start to worsen, and sometimes, mutate." Combeferre presented as Joly cringed at the thought of bacteria mutating in a human's body, which was paralleled to their country's worsening condition.

"The government gives people what pleasures them. May it be secretly supporting illegal drugs and supporting the underground exchange of them, the false delight of prostitution, or simply bribing the masses to earn their own fame for the next election." Combeferre ended as the PowerPoint played the everyday life of an average human being and how every single thing they do affects the country and its environment.

* * *

On the opposite side of the city, where it was polluted with smoke and noise; the fire dissolved into smoke and ashes as M. Thenardier extinguished Eponine's cigarette. She glared at him as she threw the cigarette into the trash bin, "What now?" M Thenardier raised a brow, "You do not bark to me like that, young miss. But how did you do yesterday?" As if on cue, Eponine rolled her eyes. "What?" she asked, eyebrows creasing together with a cold glance. "Don't what me, dear. We need good feedbacks from people about our club." M. Thenardier mentioned in a deep undertone as he held her neck tight enough to leave a mark, tight enough as if it's a normal act on a daily basis. "Yesterday was good." She swallowed. "Good." He grinned wretchedly, which made her almost throw up as he left.

She would never forget that cold glare. It was as hard as marble and as cold as ice, in which both was probably an understatement. The way his hair flew at all directions, and how he sent her away with a tone as cold as his stare. It was clear that he did not want her there. But why would his friends do business with her, or maybe her father, she didn't really know. Why would they do business if he clearly did not want her presence? _Interesting. _

Her thoughts were interrupted by the cheerful exclamation of someone, "Hey! 'Ponine, guess who?" Marius covered her eyes in excitement. Her frown was immediately replaced by a smile so genuine, that it reached her covered eyes. "Monsieur Marius?" she said in an overtone of excitement. He uncovered her eyes as she stared into his features; his moppy hair that resembled the color of sandalwood, his kind smile which was the probably the kindest thing on earth she'd ever seen, the way his eyes lit up. Oh how she loved everything about him. But his face faltered.

"What's wrong, Monsieur?" she asked, a worried look creeping up her face.

"Nothing is…" he smiled at the ground, sadness apparent.

"Please do tell!" She placed both of her hands on his shoulders. Butterflies running around her stomach as she did so. _I would do anything, and everything Monsieur. If it makes you smile again._

"I need your help on finding someone."

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	3. Chapter II: Everything would be better

**A/N: **

**This chapter would be a little dark, since I wanted to show how "dark" the world Eponine lives in and she would not face it by brash defiance; and I also wanted to show Enjolras' detachment from the Les Amis in a relationship-manner. Thanks ^^ Reviews too are very important to me. (And in case things might get a little too much, please inform me so that I can raise the rating to M)**

**Disclaimer: Les Mis, isn't mine. It's from the guy who said the quote below.**

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**Chapter II: Everything would have been better**

**Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved. - Victor Hugo**

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****"Who would that be Monsieur?" She asked, grinning which gave away her dimples.**  
**

"Unfortunately, I don't know her name…" Marius pouted, eyebrows forming a grief-stricken feature along with his downcast glance. _If only I did. I'm sure it's a very pretty name, as beautiful as her features._

"Her?" Eponine's face was almost the same as his, but when his face lit up, her face faltered down into a frown as she stared down the floor. As fast as her face turned into a frown, is as fast as she changed it back into a smile; a façade against what she truly feels. "I will, Monsieur." She smirked, but this time, it didn't reach her eyes.

How he touched her shoulder, held her hands as he grinned: made her forget why she even frowned in the first place. "Thanks Eponine you're a great friend!" with those, he left from Club Montfermeil and Eponine crashed to the black lounge, drinking from her shots of whiskey.

"Eponine!" Her father called her, proceeding towards where she was. He was unreasonably kind to her this afternoon; her talk-backing didn't result in a very much worse condition than it had. "It's your turn!"

The crowd inside the club was much, much thicker now. As the room began to smell sweat and smoke and alcohol, as it began to sound like music raging with anger in every word that was thrown. As she began dancing to the heat of the atmosphere as the sea of people, mostly men, cheered. She gave herself to the music; dancing to its beat and rhythm. To the crowd, she was wildly dancing in luscious desire. But little did they know she poured each anger, frustration and emotion to the stage; translating them into what everyone would have liked. _If only they knew._

* * *

By the time the club was closing, she was approached by her father. His face states that he needs her to do something, what could that be? "Eponine," He gestured towards her, still counting the money they had earned for the whole day; which is by no means legal. But the government neglected the offenses of it, so how could it possibly be illegal? Morally, to some, it is indeed illegal. But was morality even supposed to matter when you're crawling on dirt?

"Eponine, deliver this to the Patron-Minette." Her father ordered her, handing a small box containing a few illegal drugs. "Don't forget, to take the wages." His voice was in finality; which meant there were no questions that had to be asked, and if there will, none of them would be entertained. Eponine nodded silently, carefully placing the box on the storage of the motorcycle as she started the engine. "Off you go," Her father motioned, and on cue, she drove to the Patron-Minette's lair.

The sky was covered with vast black clouds combined with a thick sheet of smoke that ever-lingered in the atmosphere. The night's tragic mask bent over the whole scenario; cold wind was blowing all-over the plane, misshaped bushes hissed in the glades, trees were frightening and abhorrent. This was Patron-Minette's lair. Faint sounds of laughter and wickedness emerged from inside the house, looking abandoned, lightly illuminated. Eponine knocked lightly on the entrance of the lair, almost resembling a faint whisper.

"Who is there?" A light, deep, and grotesque voice hissed through the dark.

"Thenardier," She answered, failing to sound firm. The courage that she contained was born out of necessity, out of experience. Courage was one of her only means to face the harsh reality that was thrown upon her very face.

"What brings you to this place, Thenardier?" the voice interrogated, sounding from a quiet hiss to an interrogating manner; much like a crescendo.

"Delivery," she answered, with a much stronger voice than her latter.

The wooden and stained door opened as the candles from the place illuminated the faces of Patron-Minette. Nothing positive could be described to the light that fell to their face; it was gloomy and it was harsh, just as if life has been sucked out from them. Their eyes were ever-dull, and their breaths are besotted. The man who opened the door was Monsieur Claquesous, who wore the mask of the night, one who melted into the darkness as how the earth digests rotten leaves; he left all too early.

"Ahh, if it isn't Eponine!" Montparnasse strode through the hallway, as if it was a carpet of the royals; with much pride and vogue. Setting the welcoming voice aside, Montparnasse too, had to be avoided. Patron-Minette should be, avoided for that matter; theatricality in lower depth, a social theatre of crime; a carnival of horror. "Bring the box to me, 'Ponine." He commanded; she obliged, without a word.

_Don't say anything; everything would be better._

* * *

Combeferre rubbed the crease of his forehead as the smell of leather went to his nostrils, as he looked on the horizon of the country. Poor people and Rich alike, walking on the same ground; but then there were feuds. If only they would fix those on a civilized manner then everything would have been better. If what Enjolras want will succeed, peace will reach every corner of Paris. The corner of his eye met the Les Amis, on the table doing everything they do every single day. But then there's Enjolras, who would isolate himself from the rest of the world, all too engrossed in what he's doing.

His dear friend Enjolras; too engrossed to the bigger picture, that he forgets the individuals who inhabit it. If only he could do something to help him see the finer details of life. Combeferre shook his head as he wanted the thoughts to vanish away. Here he was, dreaming of what could be but impossible.

He marched to the side of Enjolras as his friend looked up at him, "Enjolras."

"Combeferre." he answered plainly.

"May I ask what had really transpired this morning that made you so infuriated?" Combeferre asked, in all properness that was due.

"None of it matters; there are far more valuable things to focus on." He answered, his eyes darting over the concept diagram that's written on his journal.

"Like what Enjolras?"

"You know the answer to that question, mon ami." He answered, firm as the marble that he is.

"Your relationship to the Les Amis is purely business-like." Combeferre spoke, out of the blue; out of topic. Enjolras raised his left brow and looked at Combeferre, and then his glance fell to his journal again. "What's that supposed to mean?" Enjolras' words were unfocused to the topic, as he was focused on the subject of the concept diagram.

"What I'm saying is; these men will support you for everything you fight for. You should at the very least, be their friend, and their confidant." Combeferre calmly said, his voice ever-so-gentle as it has always been. "You've been too preoccupied by your books, it's not prac-"

"Stop," Enjolras sat straight.

"What?"

"This isn't a discussion, Combeferre, now if you will." Combeferre nodded his head as his lips formed into a thin line; and with those, he went away.

Enjolras' phone rung through the silence of his room, he answered it.

"Hello?"

_"Monsieur Enjolras, is it?"_

"Gabriel Enjolras it is."

_"Oh yeah, yeah, the lawyer, isn't it? This is L.O.P."_

"Yes Monsieur."

_"We have found a very interesting case that you might want to handle."_

"What would that be, Monsieur?"

_"We found this case that's been filed long ago, but has never been touched. No one knew why, it was neglected months after it was file. We suspect that there's an anomaly in this case that was to be hidden. They are two similar cases, Monsieur."_

"Hmmm… What is it then?"

_"The Case of Club Montfermeil, and Patron-Minette."_

"Tell me more."

_"The Case of Club Montfermeil and Patron-Minette are both very strange; the case was filed three years ago. It accuses the club of having illegal activities, such as women and drug trafficking and also the sale of banned liquors. It hides itself as a night club, but has underground operations. Patron-Minette, however is a very notorious gang, that the police has never caught. Why? No one ever knew. They have been accused of drug trafficking and several murders that's evidences were too similar."_

"I'll call you later for conformations Monsieur, but thank you for informing me."

_"Pleasure talking with you, Monsieur."_

The call ended, as he pondered about it. Thoughts straying to what Combeferre had presented earlier that morning.

_"The government gives people what pleasures them. May it be secretly supporting illegal drugs and supporting the underground exchange of them, the false delight of prostitution, or simply bribing the masses to earn their own fame for the next election."_

Then the Patron-Minette and Club Montfermeil Case probably had something to do with the government, and their sly tactics. If so, then this is a Case he must take. But what if they're not connected with the government? He would waste time, or would he? What would he gain and lose by holding this case? It would be serious on the advantages and disadvantages that come with it; it's a double-edged sword.

_"Democracy is being a misconception to almost everyone in our population, with the government poisoning the minds of our fellow citizens."_

But if it benefits the country as a whole, even though it doesn't have something to do with the government's faults; would he do it? Maybe he should talk with the Les Amis, as a personal meeting about this case. _But then we don't have much of that personal relationship. _

_"What I'm saying is; these men will support you for everything you fight for. You should at the very least, be their friend, and their confidant."_

Maybe Combeferre was right, and if he is, everything is better.

* * *

Montparnasse took the box from Eponine's hand in a feather-like way, to the extent that she almost didn't feel it stimulate. He opened the box, paralleled to how Pandora was opened. His vicious grin showed his teeth that looked too porcelain for a man but was still in fashion, his hair that was as brown as wood was curled at the rim of his top-hat, and his there was a hint of springtime in his eyes; such was a dandy of the vain man. "Thank you, Eponine." There was no gratitude that was hinted from his voice. Eponine nodded silently, waiting for the dandy to give the payment. "Stay in for a while, and then I'll give the payment." He muttered, as if he read her mind.

_"No. I shouldn't stay." _

Before she could even say something, his fingers danced around her hair and moved to touch her neck; she didn't want this to happen. But it would always be expected.

Montparnasse brashly pinned her to the wall using his own hands; touching her hair, and skin in a very egotistical fashion. She shuddered at his touch, the moment his cold lips met her warm skin; tasting and feeling her. Eponine's eyes were tightly shut, _you've endured this before, and you now, again will. Just close your eyes and wait for it to end. After all, you're going to please father. _"What's the matter dear, not as feisty as we usually are, aren't we?" Montparnasse asked, breaking contact.

She was taken aback. Had she really lost strength?

Before he knew it, their lips were slamming against each other, with passion and anger. The kisses were slippery and damp, their teeth and tongue were against one another, biting and fighting. It was nothing like how she imagined kissing Marius.

_Marius._

It was Montparnasse' curled and sandy hair, but to her, it was Marius' tousled locks that resembled sandalwood. The scent that Montparnasse gave off was extremely strong; but to her, it was Marius' scent that smelled so light, neat and upright. It was Montparnasse that's harshly holding her against the wall; but she only felt Marius' loving pats and touches.

She fought the urge to moan Marius' name, and she succeeded. Now it has ended.

* * *

"Enjolras, you should accept this." Combeferre smiled, along with the other of Les Amis. It's finally so good to see his friend 'loosen up' and confiding in the Les Amis than keeping himself to himself. What could have made his decision too sudden?

"I agree, Enjolras. Everyone in this room, are willing to help in this case." Courfeyrac replied, earning echoes of agreement from the whole Les Amis.

"What case though?" Enjolras asked, in all humility. It was hard, but he'll definitely get used to this.

"I've been to Club Montfermeil a long time ago, I will suggest that." Bahorel suggested, wiping the sweat that formed from the hair that fell to his forehead. Bahorel was a dandy and an idler before he was in Les Amis, he certainly knows, and is well known, when it comes to clubs and cafes. Being that, with a few arguments, everyone ended up agreeing to his perception.

Everything indeed is better, now.


	4. Chapter III: Obligations and Routines

**A/N: I re-edited the summary, because it sucked. I also changed the rating to M, for further implications and actions that was to be done. **

**Thanks again to all people (though a little few) who is continually reading this new fictions. Love yah guys! Follow me on twitter, HannahSolayaoHS**

**PS: Boring Filler chapters are boring :(( This is sadly one of them...**

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**Chapter III: Obligations and Routines**

**Liberation is not deliverance - Victor Hugo**

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"So you are taking the case of Club Montfermeil?" Monsieur Beaumont asked, setting a cup of coffee at the table, offering it to Enjolras. "Yes," Enjolras spoke, and gestured towards Beaumont in gratitude. "Interesting, but as we spoke yesterday, the two of these cases are connected," Beaumont cleared his throat, handing a stack of paper to Enjolras, "These are the finer details of those two cases." Enjolras raised his brow, "What are you suggesting, Monsieur?"

"We have talked among ourselves, Monsieur Gabriel Enjolras. You're the person of this case's expertise in all of the Lawyers of Paris Organization."

"What exactly do you want to happen?"

"I'm going to be forward to you, Monsieur. We want you to hold both of those cases, and no burdens or deadlines would be laid upon your shoulder, Monsieur Enjolras."

Enjolras eyed Monsieur Beaumont, as his right brow connecter towards his nose bridge to a crease. He took the stack from the table as he began to scan the details, there were way too much. "I will call you for more details Monsieur Beaumont, but for now, I will read this further."

"Please do, Monsieur," Beaumont stood up, smiled, and shook Enjolras' hands.

Enjolras went to the nearest Café, one where he used to go to during his university days; back when everything wasn't as complicated as now. Sure, he did thought that college itself was complicated, but that seemed to change when he became a real lawyer.

The moonlight had cast a beautiful effect on the Café; it blended angelically with the café's lights, which created a sense of calmness to people who were inside. Also, the scent of coffee beans were rather relaxing. Enjolras was served his coffee, as he began to scan the cases that were given to him earlier. "Club Montfermeil, let's see…"

_Club Montfermeil – Marcieu Thenardier_

_Drug Trafficking… Filed by, Grevais Fauchelevent (Case closed, Complainant Status: Deceased)_

_Violence against Women and Children… Filed by, Musichetta LeBlanc (Case temporarily closed, Complainant Status: Inactive – Unknown Reasons)_

_Drug Trafficking… Filed by, Inspecteur Javert (Case Abandoned) _

_Women Trafficking – Prostitution… Filed by, Estelle Pontiff (Case Closed, Complainant Status: Deceased)_

Enjolras blinked his eyes, similar to how someone blinks their eyes when they rise in the morning. All the cases were either temporary closed, abandoned or closed. None of them are open-case, and two of the five complainants are dead; there's something definitely not right. He flipped towards the next page to see the cases of Patron-Minette.

_Patron-Minette_

_Gang Rape and Murder… Filed by, Durand Pontiff (Case Abandoned)_

_Murder… Filed by, Musichetta LeBlanc (Case Abandoned)_

There were other cases in the file, but both the case of Monsieur Durand Pontiff and Mademoiselle Musichetta LeBlanc was what particularly disturbed Enjolras. Both had similarity to the cases filed in Club Montfermeil, which makes them possibly connected; but both of them were abandoned. _I'm going to call Monsieur Beaumont… Inquiries would be resolved, I hope._

"Hello, Monsieur Beaumont?"

_"Monsieur Gabriel Enjolras, is it?"_

"Yes, Monsieur."

_"Ah, you're going to accept the case?"_

"Maybe, but I have inquiries."

_"What are those questions, Monsieur Enjolras?"_

"Were it that I accept both of the cases, what are the probabilities that I would face extreme danger. Rather, how dangerous would this case be? What would I be facing?"

_"Silver, Monsieur Enjolras! Silver!" Beaumont laughed_.

"Beaumont," Enjolras cleared his throat.

_"What I mean is both literal and metaphor, Monsieur Enjolras. Patron-Minette is a very dangerous gang, their hideout is still a mystery from our organization; but they are to be avoided by mere people. Unfortunate are those who are innocent and gets tangled with Patron-Minette. They're a carnival of horror I must say; silver knives are to be expected, and also, a bit of bribery, maybe. As for the Club Montfermeil, you'd be facing silver tongues. Marcieu Thenardier, or more likely known as M. Thenardier has a very persuasive attitude, but knowing you, you'll get over it. He might bribe you with things other than money as well, Monsieur Gabriel. Keep watch."_

"Thank you, Monsieur Beaumont."

"So, are you accepting the case?"

"Yes."

So this is it then? He's going to hold yet another major case for the past few years. But he had to tell the Les Amis about this, too. He knew about obligations for the past few years of his life; but Les Amis, a personal relationship with them. Was it really obligation? He'd always been obligated to do this and that. He did love work, but sometimes some of it felt like a necessity more than passion. Enjolras knew where his true passion lies; and that's in his country.

* * *

The moon was at its full phase, casting the blue light all-over the horizon of where it reaches. Accompanied by the moon, and the night; Eponine remembered what she still had to do before going back to her father.

_"I need your help on finding someone."_

Marius' voice echoed through her ears, turning the pavement of deafening quietude to his voice, and his alone. The sound of the trees swooshing and hissing were replaced by the softness, and gentleness of his voice. She had always loved nights like this. The candles that lit around the silent houses fell upon their doorsteps and created shadows; which sometimes threatened to devour her.

She skipped, scurried and strode, searching where the girl lives. But she only had so limited information. She could ask; but who? Marius? Not now then. She has to return to her father.

_Her father._

Why does she stay with her father? Why couldn't she be like Gavroche, who risked everything just to gain freedom? If she would escape, they would find her. But freedom just sounds so good. Then why does she nudges her head at it? Possibly because she still loves her father. Probably because she's grown convenient to her lifestyle. Or maybe because she has nothing to lose anymore? Everything she's done, and everything she's been doing was out of obligation. But maybe not at all. She's been doing what Marius wants, but that wasn't even obligation. But why does she oblige? She adored Marius, just everything about him.

Eponine shook the thoughts of these away and proceeded back to Club Montfermeil.

"Ahh! There's extra money, what happened?" M. Thenardier grinned at the stack of cash that was delivered to him. "Montparnasse did a little something," she gestured, drowning over the black couch and intoxicating herself with whiskey. "Completely makes sense," M. Thenardier flipped over the cash stack as he left to his room, whispering silent compliments to himself.

Tomorrow would be just like today; with the same routine, with the same strangers. It was her conventional lifestyle. Her lifestyle where crime was perfectly normal, where manipulation was a necessity and eliminating people, namely competition, was not a loss but a gain. But then again, living life was obligatory.

She then drowned herself in inebriation.

* * *

The painting was perfect, every details had its own backstory, even the slightest fog in the sky, or even the little horses ridden by the army at the farthest view. There stood _Marianne_, in all her valiance, and raw beauty, she waved the flag at her right hand and held the musket at her left. If every people of France were as brave as her, their little revolution would have succeeded. Her clothing was cascaded down to her rib-part, but she was as elegant.

Now they were in the Republic that these people fought so hard for, but why does everything seem so wrong? The sugar-coatings of the government to the people had made them brasher and more vicious. As if they've grown themselves pangs just to climb at top of the ladder of society. But hope is plausible; it is most plausible. If everything was not out of obligations, and anything they do, they will love. It is very much possible if they could change one person at a time.

Enjolras was a man driven by passion, everything he did, he does for what he believe is right. He is driven by his passion; he is the people's man. But when would he be the people's person?

Combeferre scratched his head as he was lying on his couch, yet again plunged in deep thought.

_Liberty doesn't only come from Revolution._

_And not only liberty comes with a successful revolution; tragedy, too comes with it._

He pondered as he admired the painting of Eugène Delacroix: "Liberty leading the people." Was violence the only cure to an ill nation? Don't you fight evil with good? Then if so, why would you launch fire with flames? Combeferre indeed believed that there are several other ways to reform their beloved country.

_To fix Marianne once again._

* * *

When the sun rose once again, Enjolras already had plotted what he had to do for the day. _I mark my first investigation. _This day would be more than just speaking, and orating. That's right, today would be a step towards the betterment of their country, or at least towards the betterment of the people inhabiting it.

_People inhabiting it._

When he told the Les Amis about him accepting both the Patron-Minette and the Club Montfermeil cases, they were ready to help with almost anything. They all agreed to take a trip on Club Montfermeil first, to hide themselves as customers, and to observe the place.

This day, he felt no obligations, similar to how a bird roams at its will.

The Les Amis positioned themselves on different corners of the bar, some rather enjoying it, or pretending to. But at the very least, they had to convince people that they were there for leisure; several placed on the best drunken faces and voices they could do; laughed when there's a joke, drank when there were drinks, and howled when the dancers performed.

The frenzied lights were harsh against Enjolras' eyes as he stood in the crowd with Combeferre, in all of his elegance and poise. The music sneered at his ears as it spat every word. The wild crowd was full of strangers, both men and women. His eyes skimmed through the whole occurrence; from men throwing their dollar bills at the performers, to groups of people that looked ghastly red due to intoxication, to men dancing and touching their opposite to unearthly places. It was a sinful place.

His glance shifted accidentally towards the solo-performer in which the people were loudly screaming at, the crowd grew wilder in howls and groans. The woman was wearing black, and her skin was olive and her hair was brown-auburn; the same dismal anger and pain in her eyes never retreated.

_"Get Out," He mused and glared at the woman sleeping beside him._

Her hair was tossed all-over, as she danced one step to another; her movements were graceful and sharp, it was raw and then it was well-baked. He saw the animosity in her eyes and in her moves that translated differently to the audience.

Then her stare averted to him; and for a split-second, their eyes locked against each other.

"Enjolras!" Combeferre called him in a stern whisper, earning his glance. "What is it, mon ami?" He asked, glancing over to his shoulder where his hands were planted. "Some people are passing through a sort of passage accompanied by a guy who seems like the owner who operates underground," Combeferre faintly whispered, avoiding further problems. Enjolras looked over to where some people are being led, with a time gap between each of them. _This might just be the answer. _"Thank you my friend," Enjolras smirked, eyes collecting the bits of Les Amis and ordering them to retreat the place in caution.

Eponine swore that she saw the man that she was with for the last three days, and for a second they stared against each other. But she was all too passionate, for a lack of better word, to what she was doing that it didn't even distracted her. Why was he there? He stood there and he didn't even look like he enjoyed it. Oh well, but who was she to know? He's just another stranger with a face.

This was the time of the night where people who had 'extra' business in their club starts to retreat underground, and anything that was supposed to be malicious was to be covered by her. It proved quite effective, people were distracted. She never cared if they saw her as an object of lust on their dirty little heads.

* * *

"We have scattered around Club Montfermeil. Feuilly, Bahorel and Grantaire you were at the bartender, Courfeyrac and Prouvaire you were at the stripper's corner, Joly and Bossuet, both of you were where the people were dancing, correct?" Enjolras asked, sitting at the table's front chair. Everyone nodded in agreement. "Feuilly, Bahorel, what did you find?" Enjolras asked, blatantly dismissing the existence of Grantaire.

"There was nothing particularly uncanny, Enjolras. But there were several beverages that were sold under the table," Bahorel motioned. "They would lead the customers asking for the illegal beverages into some normal casks where they would fill their drinks with forbidden drinks," Feuilly continued, "That is all, though," Bahorel nodded in agreement.

"No," Grantaire spoke, silently, but sternness masked his words. "That wasn't all," Enjolras raised his brow at Grantaire's words. "I noticed some, drugs being slipped to women." Enjolras, taken aback, forced a smile and nodded.

"Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, what did you find?" Combeferre cleared his throat and cut in.

"Nothing particularly abnormal, but we suspect that something was happening beyond closed doors," Courfeyrac said. "The only thing that was much unsettling was the way men were too easily aroused by little movements that they go someplace else and later on with the woman they wish to be with," Jehan mumbled. "We suspect that there's prostitution ongoing," Courfeyrac's lips formed into a thin line after his statement.

"Interesting," Enjolras looked at Combeferre, "Now we're going somewhere." Enjolras sat straight and motioned to Joly and Bossuet.

"First of all, Joly panicked on the germ-spread that was happening on the dance floor, but I managed to calm him down and sit in a corner," Bossuet waned the humor that could have been inside his sentence, but even so, it earned a few laughs from Les Amis. "I found something out though," Joly cut in, earning the attention back to the topic.

"The girl, the solo-performer, is an underage."

"So what you mean technically, is that she's not supposed to be dancing in those lacy lingerie, on black-strap-heels-five-inch stilettos, and wildly being objectified by a group of men?" Combeferre inquired, Enjolras raised his brow, obviously unsettled.

"To put it frankly, yes," Joly choked.

* * *

**Reviews makes writing very easy and I really love reviews, please review :D (Aaand you people don't know what things are comin' soo prepare yourselves HAHA)**


	5. Chapter IV: Love and Misconceptions

**A/N: Oh dear God I am very sorry for leaving this long, I had writer's block and I got discouraged and stuff. But yeah I also kinda planned things out for this story, and I will warn you, it won't be happy. But thanks for reading and for the support 333 Oh and I apologize for the shortness...**

* * *

**Chapter IV: Love and Misconceptions**

**What Is Love? I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul - Victor Hugo**

* * *

"I think I've seen her, in our party," Courfeyrac pondered, as that mental statement came out to be whispers of information among the Les Amis. Courfeyrac tapped his fingers, as if waiting to say something as he cast his gaze down, and then to Enjolras and perhaps everyone. "I think it would be best to investigate her…"

"Do you think that would be wise?" Combeferre philosophized, placing his two fingers to rub his chin. Courfeyrac's proposal could definitely lead Enjolras' case closer or farther from the truth; it's either the part of the problem or part of the solution. Where would the safe-zone be in investigating the case? "Don't you think that investigating _the _underground operations would be better?"

"Perhaps investigating people involving the case would be better," Courfeyrac argued, pointing over the stack of paper that was placed in the middle of the table. They just cannot simply charge over and investigate underground, it is a far too dangerous act. They have much foes on their way towards what they fight for, that shouldn't be multiplied any time soon.

"I think…" Jehan didn't have as much finality and solidness in his voice compared to Enjolras, Courfeyrac or Combeferre. Everyone turned their heads at him. "We should try looking for Musichetta LeBlanc," he swallowed. "Her case isn't as intimidating as the others, but it's just as a mystery," he ended.

Enjolras weighed the three options that were given by Les Amis, each of them had its own edge, and its own weak-line. But they certainly could help further the case of both Patron-Minette and Club Montfermeil. Looking for Musichetta could lead to answers, but it could take persuasions to make her speak. Investigating the underground operations is going to be one of the most solid evidence they would ever have to prove the illegality of Club Montfermeil, but it was rather too straight-forward and dangerous. _What could Combeferre be plotting? _Rooting out information about the under-age performer in the club would be… well, rooting out information that could matter or not matter at all.

"We'll take all three roads," Enjolras finally spoke, in his entire finality. "Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel you can investigate in the people surrounding Club Montfermeil, namely the under-aged girl and the other anomalies in Club Montfermeil. I will settle the investigations inside the Club Montfermeil. Jehan, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Joly, please look for Musichetta, you will know what to say and whatnot," Enjolras commanded.

"What about me?" Grantaire asked, drowning himself on a digital Chinese checkers.

"Well, you may supervise the work being done, it's all optional to you," Enjolras stood, and retired back to his workplace.

* * *

The harsh wind whistled through the gate of Club Montfermeil, trees shuddered in a bittersweet rhythm. The night was a little too fast this day. The moonlight has gone out and every houses surrounding Club Montfermeil were illuminated by lights or candles. He peered through the windows and stared at the customers slowly starting to leave. A grin swept at the corner of his lip as he counted the money earned.

"Eponine!" He called out, placing his stack of cash in his wooden box. There was no answer. "Eponine!" Thenardier's voice echoed once again, with spite, with annoyance. He rushed downstairs to see what was happening, why she wasn't responding.

And there she was, who viewed the surveillance camera.

"What the hell are you doing?" Thenardier stumped his feet across to where she stood, leaning against the wall and browsing through the record history. He crossed both of his arms and stood there, waiting for her excuse.

"Nothing," she rasped and walked out.

Thenardier sneered, then proceeded towards the record history of the surveillance cameras. Then there was it, a familiar matted blonde hair that appears to be in every corner at different occasion. He swore that he had seen him, he swore that he knew him, he swore that leisure wasn't his primary activity.

Then he swore that he was Gabriel Enjolras.

And then on cue, his head was bursting with questions. Why was the lawyer investigating their place? Surely, for sure the government wouldn't mind it. But Gabriel Enjolras was just… too sneaky. Surely danger would follow, surely everything he worked for will falter.

But no, it would not happen.

And he knew just where to go.

That's right, Patron-Minette. If one hears that name, they definitely crumble in the totality of fear. Fear on the other's place and revenue on Thenardier's behalf.

The theatricality of the lower depths, a social theatre of crime.

A carnival of horror.

* * *

The flickering candles feasted on the darkness and gloom brought by the night, casting blurry shadows of abhorrence and fear. Illumination reached unearthly places, and by it, stains and blight could be seen through the blemished bricks. Walls painted in crimson blood and black grime, disheveled and dreary.

"The lawyer, no?" Claquesous hissed, shrouded in a thick cloak of mystery, most often masked than not. A ventriloquist more than a layman, an actor more than mediocre, a shadow more than man.

"Yes," Thenardier swallowed, his eyes wandering actively.

"What do we get in return, Thenardier?" Babet interrogated, and rather, interrupted. In his right palm stood a toolkit of his old profession in dentistry, and on his left hand grasped a replication of an old blade; an epitome of the jack of all trades, master of none.

"You can decide, my friends!"

Gueulemer's eyes traveled from one place to another, his figure towering over Babet's small frame, his figure making the candlelight opaque. "Wha-"

"Each one of you is indebted to me," Montparnasse, in the entirety of a fashion assumed to be elegance, paced towards the room. "I now can assume that I have most of every right to decide the reward," His mouth twitched in a smirk so sinister, crusted in wickedness and crime.

"Stop," Claquesous hissed. "We can talk about the reward once the job is done."

And on signal, everyone proceeded to do their respective duties.

* * *

Even the faintest creak of a rotten hardwood could be heard in Ms. LeBlanc's deadpan house. Hence why, even Jehan's quiet knocks could be passed on as something loud and hard. It took a while before the door was opened, and they expected an elderly, or someone who looked dry and weary.

Very unlike Musichetta LeBlanc, whose eyes are paralleled to a gypsy; wild and speculating.

Small talk, guards up; were the perfect description of how the meeting went.

But as time went on, things slowly made sense, things slowly opened up, and things became a little more than an abandoned case. Musichetta was more than an abandoned witness, more than an abandoned complainant.

"There is something very threatening about Patron-Minette," she narrated, and shook his head, "No, actually threatening is an understatement. Their lair is a house of horror, they take delight on the misery of others," she warned.

Musichetta stood up to mix coffee for the boys, but even so, continued, "Club Montfermeil is very much related to Patron-Minette, as if they have the same leadership or owner, whatever you call it."

And all of a sudden, loud steps tumbled down from the stairs, and a petite figure was recognized from the second floor. "Musichetta, who are these?" The young boy in a blonde tousled hair asked.

"Gavroche, this is Joly, Jehan, Bossuet and Feuilly," she motioned over towards them.

"Oh, okay," the boy grinned, and disappeared once again.

"That was Gavroche, I saw him as a kid abandoned near Club Montfermeil, and he bore similarity on the owner of the club, I presumed they abandoned him," Musichetta finished mixing the coffees and placed four cups for the four.

"So… That explains the violence against women and children case that you filed?" Feuilly asked.

Musichetta nodded, and continue, "As I have said, investigating on Patron-Minette alone could be the solution to many prob-"

"-What stopped you from pursuing the case?" Bossuet interrogated, leaping into the question with all suddenness.

"It was a hopeless case, Monsieur."

* * *

"Eponine," Marius hurried through the brick pavements, a grin slightly painted towards his expression.

The street lamplight illuminated his face and magnified the curve of his lips, his freckles too. His hair in the color of sandalwood, as sweat trickled from its mop towards his forehead, and all over his face. The warm and gentle aura that he unknowingly gave expelled the gloom that the lonely streets bought.

Little he knew, little he saw.

"Monsieur!" Eponine replied, in an equalized excitement.

"I thought this should help you find her," he grinned, handing out a digital photo he took that contains a girl with a blonde hair, and well, a porcelain complexion. A picture contains a thousand words, and that much is true, because maybe if he had to explain how she looked like, it would take them days to end it to begin with.

The picture looked familiar.

A person, somehow, an acquaintance, a ghost of her past.

A ghost that could only retrieve the root of misery and remorse.

But if it means seeing him smile like this, so be it.

But his smile was all she wanted to see. A smile that served as a flickering light through the darkness, a smile that sweetened the sour recipes of life, a smile ever so bright that became a lamp unto her feet and a light unto her path.

A light within her reach.

"Thank you, Monsieur," she rasped.

"I knew you're the friend I could always count on," he gave her a gentle pat on her arms, and with those on mark, he left. He left skipping and jumping.

Much like the childhood that remained in him, and constantly left her.

* * *

Searching for the blonde's house was a task too easy. She exactly knew where they lived, of course she would. Information has been one of her and her father's trade since the beginning.

She would never forget that name now. Cosette. Of all the feelings that clouded her opinions, morality and principles; there are two things that she was certain of:

That she loved Marius, and hated Cosette.

Sometimes, a person mistakes admiration for love. Sometimes, a person mistakes envy for hate. Nevertheless, a person can be so sure of what she feels, but on a larger point-of-view, it's not what it really seems. On a larger frame, it could always be described as infatuation, or obsession. On a larger frame, it could always be described as jealousy and resentment.

* * *

"Courfeyrac for France's sake please just do this research tomorrow," Bahorel covered both of his ears at the noise created by Courfeyrac's computer. "It's one in the morning, let us all sleep in peace!"

Courfeyrac just stared at Bahorel and turned his device off, mimicking the actions of heavy-hearted men, "Fine. You just can't accept that you failed one of the pre-requisites of law during our university days," he snickered.

"Hey!"

"Dear goodness gracious, will you two ever stop?" Combeferre closed his leather-bound book and placed it near his lampshade. "So, Courfeyrac, what did you find?"

The conversation fell rather serious. "Remember the girl? The one who Joly discovered to be underage? I found out what her name was. She's Eponine Thenardier, the daughter of the owner of Club Montfermeil," he gestured, leaning towards his pillow.

"Go on," Bahorel motioned.

"And here's another thing," Courfeyrac stated, trying to add a bit of tension to the next words that could come out of his mouth.

"Yes?" Combeferre listened intently.

"She's directly connected to Patron-Minette."

Inside the room, the three of them shared a look of understanding. Understanding that was understood to be a milestone towards the betterment of the case. A milestone that could lead to further discoveries and solid evidences, now if only the others collected information; everything would have been better.

"Wait, does any of you know where Marius has been?" Courfeyrac chewed the remaining chips on the silver platter.

"I have not a tint of idea," Combeferre spoke.

"The last thing I heard from him was that he was in love with that 'goddess' girl he won't shut up about," Bahorel witted.

"Oh well," Combeferre shrugged, drowning back to contemplation.

Love does silly things to people, sometimes they would even jump into absurdity for love. Because of love, rationality somehow closes its course, and then somehow, someday, you lose yourself into hysteria. Into the world of the absurd. But what is really love?

Is it passion?

Is it sacrifice?

But love is passion, and it too is sacrifice. Love is a subject too often subjected to misconceptions; admiration, obsession, beauty, and romance. But all of these things are feelings, feelings that bursts into embers that eventually dies down.

Because love is not a feeling, nor an emotion.

* * *

**How was it? Review! :))**


	6. Chapter V: They Meet

**Author's Notes:**

**Umm... Hi there! Hahaha so yes, this is the part where they have an actual conversation, pity that it's not in the best times... But hey! This is actually essential to the plot! Sooo... yeah :DD**

**Colleen - I am sooooo glad that you liked this fic! I wish you the best for your upcoming debate! Stay pretty and cheery as you always are!**

* * *

**Chapter V: They Meet**

**Great perils have this beauty, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers - Victor Hugo**

* * *

_A few days later…_

The walls were drenched in gore and grime. Abominable liquid dripped from the corners, and the abhorrent candlelight reached among the shadows and casts antipathy to whomever it falls to. Terror and fear lurked in every corner as the wooden chair creaked in rhyme with the drops of unearthly water. The skies were out of sight, and the room is built of cement and dry blood.

Where was he?

The candles flickered and embers died into detestable ashes. Echoes of sorrow and quietude screamed through the cold summer night. The foul scent was much sickening and rotten. The degradation of the structure is very much apparent as it appears to be an old ruin of its former glory.

He's sure, he's just too sure that this is not a dream.

But somehow, he hoped it is.

Enjolras fluttered his eyes, tried to move his wrist, but failed to do so. He was restrained into the wooden chair by a metal chain. Cold enough to send shudders down his spine, cold enough to fuel his need to know what's happening. Cold enough to energize his resentment towards the presented situation. Cold enough to express remorse towards his inability to do something.

There's just no time for occurrences such as these, the government, are little by little corrupting the minds of the masses; buying their honor, buying their vote. The case too, they needed all time they could get.

The clock is ticking.

"Ahh, you're finally awake!" A figure strode through the hall, appearing only as a shadow. The figure's voice echoed through the walls that's perfectly described as appalling. The figure took form into a shape of someone so slender; much paralleled to a boy who outgrew himself a man. His hair resembled a dandy's fashion and it's in the color of brown, and his lips curled into a menacing grin. A morbid fascination lit across his eyes that co-existed its resemblance to spring-time.

In contrast to the figure, Enjolras' golden locks were tousled and locked. His Siberian sapphire glare brimmed in resentment and frustration, once laid unto himself, now poured towards the first being that approached him. His veins propped and tensed at the chains that still stimulated towards his bareness. "Who are you? Why am I in here?" The question came out concrete and in fury, as he struggled through the chains.

"Relax my dear friend, you're in safe hands."

"Answer me!" Enjolras' hands crumbled through the chains and his shoulders tugged themselves, searching for a chance of escape but finding none.

"Actually, you've been prying a little too much. Let's say, this is your disciplinary action," The figure held a sharp dagger, twinkling in Silverlight, coated in dry blood. A dagger that appeared to be the vessel where innocent lives that were taken, in there, was stored. Stored as a lugubrious memory, but for this being, a fashion for his morbid fascination. He then, proceeded towards Enjolras.

"Montparnasse!" A deep undertone rang, through the halls, at the wooden floor. It seemed to address the dandy. "Control yourself," The form appeared, a form shrouded in mystery and Cimmerian shade. Montparnasse sneered and shoved his blade back to its prime position, and with these, they both left.

Montparnasse. That name just sounded too familiar.

_The night was a little too restless, there were just so much thoughts and ideals that Enjolras are managing at this hour. But all of them were hazy and vague. Sleep is the primary source of energy, aside from food. And lack of sleep results to, lack of energy, of course._

_Enjolras lay on his bed, contemplating, plotting and pondering. But that's just until loud footsteps creaked through marble and someone knocked through his door. "It's open," he mentioned in haze. _

_"Enjolras, I've found extra information. Though the source is anything but reliable, it could still count," Courfeyrac rushed towards Enjolras, holding his digital pad. "What is it?" Enjolras asked, his brows forming a familiar crease of weariness. "One of the four heads of Patron-Minette is called Montparnasse, now I'm not so sure about it but-"_

_"Thank you, Courfeyrac." Enjolras motioned._ _Courfeyrac had said more things that what he'd heard, perhaps he really lacked sleep._

Now there's always that moment when a person wished he'd listened. When a person hopes he'd heard. When he longed that he should have paid attention. But then, he didn't. Whatsoever the reason is, he didn't. But then there's no use dwelling to what's past.

* * *

Well her father said that today, they will celebrate like gods. But because of its recycled and damaged definition, what did it really mean? It used to be feasting on the little crumbs that overflowed and fell from the government's silver platter, it used to mean that they would literally feast with plenty food, it used to be just an old expression of how "lucky" the club is. Whatever it is, it brought his mood up.

And he could care less where she went, if he was such in high spirits.

Marius. That's right, she should go to him! It's been a few days since they've last talked, oh how did he feel right now? Was he as lonely as she was? Did he still have the same grin that he wore whenever she sees him? Dear God, does his presence still illuminate the darkest parts of the town?

The thought of him itself was enough to establish springs to her feet that made her skip and jump and leap, the thought itself formed flutters around her stomach, he was a fuel that heightens her spirit, and he was a liquor that drowns her sorrow. Or so she thinks.

She collected her legs towards the door, ready to open it, and ready to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Thenardier emerged from the door, as a means to stop the girl from leaving.

_Well, shit. _

"Just somewhere, 'Pa," she swallowed, her feat retreated back from the doorstep, into its former position.

"Well, okay, but be back before twelve, you have a duty."

"Okay," she waved nonchalantly and proceeded through the empty streets of Paris. Every joint, painted in dust. Every corner, she saw Marius' face. Isn't it just wonderful that they co-existed? That they used to be neighbors. That's why she got to see his face every now and then, but he moved. He moved out and she had no idea where. How could she find him now?

* * *

_"Today, we will celebrate like god!"_

But those statements had been, in fact, true. Because of this day's fortunate luck, Marius was actually just across the park. _God bless my soul. _She could see his expression from afar, in fact, she could see his expression even if he's not there. But most of all, he was glumly.

Eponine hurried towards the troubled soul, "Monsieur!" she tried to catch his attention, and yet he didn't seem to hear. "Monsieur Marius?" she once again, tried, adding a little more volume to her voice. "Monsieur!" she finally tapped him, and a distraught expression met her well-lit face. "What's wrong?" She asked.

"God forgive all my transgressions," he muttered to himself, the statements seemed more like driven in remorse rather than a silent prayer.

"Monsieur?"

"There's nothing wrong, Eponine."

_I know it when you are sad. _His face that was well-stained with anguish wasn't anything she had seen before, but she just knew that something was up. The curves of his old smile still remained in all of its raw fashion, but they are slowly swept in a frown. She wanted to make him smile. _But then I just know what will make you happy. _She knew how to make him smile, but on top of that, she wanted to be the reason why he would ever smile.

"Aha! I know what will make you happy!" She cheered, and sat in the same bench where he did. Inches becoming their distance. "I have found the girl's address?"

"Really?" He turned back to her.

"Yes!"

"Oh tell me 'Ponine, how did she look like?" He held her arms. "Oh of course that's silly, she should still look like the goddess of the heavens, as if she resides on paradise itself. I do think her house is like Olympus, draped in elegance and gold!"

_Indeed, I saw her, her home, what she wore, and what she looked like. I saw everything. Indeed, I saw how her blonde hair rivals the sun on how it shines through the day, indeed I saw how she could be a ballerina by how graceful she moves, indeed I saw how her teeth paralleled the pearls of the ocean, and indeed I saw how her voice rose through and created a melody with the songbirds. _

_Indeed, I saw how far she was from me. Indeed, I saw how you love her, and not me. _

She took deep breathe, and balanced her sinking self, "Yes, she looked just the same." With those, she pulled an index card from her pocket that contained Cosette's address. A metaphor on how she just gave out her last cards on Marius. But then he smiled again, a smile which now reached his ears that it was worthy to be called a grin.

He hugged her, as tight as he can; though to him, it was no infidelity to the girl he always dreamed of. And then to her, it left a very bittersweet sensation. "I'll go now, thanks again," He released her from his embrace.

And when he left, her shoes became interesting to look at, all of a sudden. _Not to me, not for me. _And as if taunting her, rain started to fall. No it did not want to sympathize her, it wanted to mock her. To express how pathetic she is, to seize her last remaining self-confidence. But at the same time, maybe it also wanted to express sympathy for her, to hide the tears that threatened to spill. But she can endure this, it's not the end.

"I'm okay, it's all fine," she whispered to herself in repetition.

* * *

The clock ticked, and she was almost late for her duty.

"Almost late, my dear," Thenardier raised his clock, and laughed. "Anyways, you will stand guard on our hostage, well not necessarily hostage but for lack of better terms, let's leave it at that," he continued. "Consider yourself lucky you don't have to stand in the snow like before," he ended, then left.

Eponine fluttered her eyes, the night has gone too far.

She was far from exhausted, though.

She crossed towards the numerous cells that resided in the deep chambers of Patron-Minette's lair, some are empty, dead as a tomb, but some of them, corpses resided in. She quivered at the thought, it is indeed scary on how men such as them could annihilate men with ease. Montparnasse slit throats without even a tint of guilt that should have scarred his heart. Claquesous takes them away, and with darkness, darkness that he is, they melt. Gueulemer's strength is just unparalleled, that they squirm, and shrink at his presence. Babet, can do almost anything, being the jack-of-all-trades that he is. But then her Papa, could he really do it? If time demands, for sure he can. But what about her? Could she do it? No surely not, it's wrong isn't it? But oh well.

Foul stench lingered through the cells, and as she reached the end of it, there's a struggling being. The chains clung, and the wood banged against the fragile bricks of the cell. His head was downcast and his animosity was apparent through the sweat that trickled through his bare chest.

And when he looked straight, his eyes met hers.

Just how fire clashes with water.

Oh the irony, his eyes that's in the shade of the sapphire sea had the viciousness of fire, her eyes that's colored in amber and auburn combined that has the appearance of dark fire had the emptiness of the traitor sea.

"You?"

"You?"

And then it was the third time it happened, where an impalpable line of electricity is always inevitable.

Enjolras shook his head to the extremity of left and right, sweat crept towards his eyes, causing him to release stifled groan. His blonde locks were straightened and damp, his glare was flickering and the cold chains drained some of what strength remained. "Why are you here?" His undertone rasped.

"I am meant to ask that question, Mister," She crossed her arms. "Why are you here?" Eponine placed emphasis on the subject. Why is fate so harsh? She lost the remaining chance she had with Marius, and now she had to deal with this "hostage". As if Montparnasse harassing her every now and then is not enough. Being anonymous and living in the shadows is more than enough for her, too.

"It's very much palpable why I am in here," Enjolras sneered.

"Palpable?"

"Obvious," He bantered.

Eponine creased her brows and said, "I mean why of all people, you would be in this place."

"Could you just tell me why you too are here?" She sure is one of the people to be investigated by Combeferre and his group.

"Why would I tell that to you? Now, tell me why you're here."

"Answer my question first."

"I'm not supposed to," Eponine sneered.

"Even I myself have no idea why I am here." Enjolras placed a tight glance towards his limbs, and saw marks of chain across it. If fate would have made him fortunate, it would remain just as this. Be he doubted, somehow, a silent threat screamed through this lair.

"It's better that way, believe me," she stood there and leaned towards the cell's bars, just as cold as how the night could've been were it that she spent it alone again. Just as how cold the neglect that was laid upon her had been, the moment her mother, father, brother, sister and perhaps everyone she have ever known left her, longing, seeking attention; but instead, found neglect and abandonment.

But she's okay, she'll be okay.

It's not like it's something new to her.

It's always been this way.

And it should stay this way.

It should always will.

But then what about a leap of faith? What could her world be right now, were it she decided to take that leap a long time ago? Could she be as well off as most who took it too? But what if she leapt, but instead, landed with a broken wings? What if, she could never really open her wings and soar? But then what if she ascends? What if there's a future in there that awaits her?

Of course, she'd seen what future could possibly had. She once saw herself with Marius, a wife and a mother. She herself soar, morally and physically. She saw herself healthy and smiling. She saw her eyes lit up with the fires of youth even in her adulthood. Was Marius her ticket out of the whirlpool of evil that she was dragged in? No, of course not. But he was just, upright, and radical and kind. Well, that was all before he met Cosette.

Cosette who was once a miserable lark like what she is now. But by a damned intervention, now redeemed. Cosette was pulled out of the sea of mess, wherein she, poor Eponine, was pulled into. Could salvation actually await her?

Could salvation be just waiting for her in an alternative life?

But that's impossible, or at least that's what she thought.

* * *

**Drop your reviews people! Whajja think? :))) (Reviews makes writing easier soo don't stop reviewing ;) hehe)**


	7. Chapter VI: Two Sides Of A Coin

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait.**

**Ben - Thanks for that review, I love you now. Anyways, we all have to be patient in those things right?**

**Nina Wilson Scott - Thanks for continuously supporting this fiction!**

**Anyways people, I'd like to mention several fictions that I really love in this site. Anything that's written by Unicornesque, insignificantramblings, marblefacade, deplam, and SleepingWithinWater. Specially the one's by Unicornesque, it's so poetrical that it surpasses modern prose! I really love it. **

* * *

**Chapter VI: Two Sides of A Coin**

* * *

**In its most repulsive and most ferocious development,**  
**a social deformity which is, perhaps, even more terrible than the evil rich; the evil poor. - Victor Hugo**

* * *

_"Hello? Is this Monsieur Beaumont, of Lawyer of Paris Organization?"_

_"Who is this?"_

_"Goodbye."_

_"Wait!"_

* * *

Days flew by the crescent moon.

Time had only progressed the scenery in two ways: upwards and downwards. Throughout the meadows, through the streets, the cities; the rural and urban areas, life was difficult, and somehow, to a farther extent, impossible. Everywhere, ruins and structures alike were impoverished and mildly declining. Illness and plague are creeping towards the slums, crippling the few from earning their wages. But then the elect, the few, those who were chosen to seat in their silver chairs, which is of course a metaphor, are feasting with the solidity of their abled-bodies to dine through the society's treasure box.

But then, in a world where the dog eats the dog, there are advantages too.

Just like how a mirror has two faces; and a coin has two sides.

Were it that this delinquency was exposed to the masses: to the hard-working middle class, to the people drowned in poverty that slowly perishes, to the few elite who are a tad-bit concerned about the citizens, their fellow men, who resides in the country; then this would cause havoc and cataclysm all-over the society. And when that happens, a revolution will erect; whether violent or peaceful. And when that happens, a breath of fresh air will ever linger across the civilization and a new era of peace will glaze over France.

On the other hand, the Les Amis, without Enjolras, is disembodied. Even with Combeferre's philosophical eloquence, Feuilly's cosmopolitan promptness, Courfeyrac's vigor and enthusiasm, Bossuet's gentle smile, Jehan's melancholy, Joly's knowledge, Bahorel's wit, they were a fully prepared soup without a mixer. Someone to balance the components to produce excellence.

He was gone on a timing too much precious to be a coincidence, when little by little, poverty is being felt and creeping forth even towards the middle class. When their labor takes their time from dawn to dusk, leaving no time for their respective households. The perception of each members are clashing, but at the most rarest of times, combining. Even so, Combeferre, being the second in lead, and Courfeyrac, being the center, are not able to do much with the lack of power and authority. They just needed the chief.

* * *

Arguments broke through from the mist of smoke on how the situation had to be handled.

"There is a never-ending string of chargeless horrible abuse that's indirectly being done to the poor, roam around Paris and you'll see illness and hunger everywhere! We must do something!" Feuilly charged at the room in his worrisome expression that sweat trickled harshly across the curves of his chin.

"Illness? We have to think of an indirect solution to that. It wouldn't help if we would catch it too, then how would we be able to help?" Joly argued, and cringed.

Bossuet's smile disappeared, the one that he always wore, then he said, "If this continues, we definitely have to make action."

"There would always be a time for that," Combeferre crossed both of his arms as he neared and leaned towards the wall beside the fireplace. "But for now, we have to find Enjolras. We can't get any further without him, not that we're useless, he's just the key to our investigations."

"He centers every one of us," said the centre, which is Courfeyrac.

"But that's not only that," Feuilly added, laying out a newspaper that draped itself and became the centerpiece of the wooden table. "There's usually news about the government in here, but it seems that public information is being censored."

"We're a democratic country, but that does not end at that. Branches, media and several non-government organization could possibly be manipulated by the elect. The government has every power to manipulate the information that courses through mass media," Combeferre dictated in a meditative gaze.

"Above contemporary movement; the soldiers of democracy, the pioneers of freedom, and the few who still cares are long extinct," Bahorel pointed out.

"There's always hope, my friend!" Courfeyrac bursted through his vigor, and forth towards to the extent of his courageous enthusiasm. One that convinces itself at the time of solitary hope.

And along those statements, noise broke through the fragments of their little argument. An immeasurable amount of compassion resided in each of their hearts, but without a proper shepherding of it, the results are arguably quite chaotic. But that's when Combeferre's diplomacy comes in handy, "Stop. Nothing will ever be solved if each of you indulges on the victory of a lengthy debate. An example of the house of the senate at the moment, except crusted with more hypocrisy and false gentleness."

"I agree, it's less productive than doing an actual something," says Bahorel then he sat calmly.

"Now let's do more plotting than arguing, shall we? My friends?" Courfeyrac's grin returned.

Joly's panicked face seems to be made-composed by Bossuet's smile already. "Okay, I think we should talk about this illness that's spreading around the city,' says Joly with a tinge of joy, swallowing the bits of lump that infiltrated his throat throughout the unnourished argument. "Agreed," said Bossuet.

* * *

Of course the poor soul still has to eat, never in a million years had she considered that her father, being the ungratifying and greedy man that he is, would actually bother to even feed their victim. He's going to expire in the rusty cellar that he's locked in, and she stood there, ordered to make sure that the lawyer does not escape. However, in her heart's deepest chambers, where a gratifying compassion lies undiscovered, she felt pity for the innocent victim, a feeling rather resented by her father who would shrug it off with profound distaste.

The exchanges between the two lately has disappeared as it had appeared during the first time they met in his cell. As vague as it was when they first saw each other in his bed.

She handed a stale bread that she somehow stealthily swiped and smuggled towards the cell.

"I'm chained down," he answered. Strength from his body withdrawing, but his spirit more than willing to break free. To break free and cast revenge on the people responsible for his loss; loss of time, assets and his diminished liability, which on the outer world, is compiling.

She neared towards him, squatted just beside his chair and started to direct the bread discreetly, a manner too cautious to be caught. A devious act by someone who's lived in total moral corruption, to be accompanied by deformed ethics and misinformed conception about the judgment on what is wrong and what is right.

He bore an angry stare towards the bread, but a stare mixed in starvation; which is now directed to the benefactor. "Why?" says Enjolras, at that point in human settlement, they concede that the proximity of their strength against their weakness is way more decreased and diminished to even speak properly even in all of their eloquence, logic, or reasoning that was rightfully due.

"I know hunger when I see it," Eponine answered, mentally disconnected from the subject, which made her tone something that could debatably be waved off as nonchalant. "Eat up," she dictated.

Now were it a different situation, he's going to be the one to dictate her; a natural born leader, a soldier of democracy yet a saint of justice. The one who created him surely sewed irony into his tendons. An angel of the reformation, revolution and liberation; but perhaps, a devil in his own way.

But all these aside, he seized the bread. His muscles tensed up at the movement of his jaw, revitalizing the limbs that were long static and numb. New bruises and dry blood crusted over his complexion that even in its blemishes, still worthy to be paralleled to porcelain. Days have passed since he was stuck in this cell, and by those few hours and minutes that flows by he still managed to do the most productive thing he can: which is to lay his logic and observe. After all, he was the logic of their cause.

And what he have gathered so far that he is in Patron-Minette's lair.

_Bingo. _

That Patron-Minette is ran by four heads: Montparnasse, a garroter, assassin, a dandy who loves to take delight in himself, a thief who starved elegance as evil aroused in him an appetite for the worse. Claquesous, the brother of night, a ventriloquist who would only emerge until it's the darkest hour where there's no light, who would whither into an abyss when dawn is about to approach. Gueulemer, a man whose strength is worthy to be paralleled to Hercules, his body built of marble and his arms, made of brass, but the amount of strength in his body is what little there is to his brain. Babet was thin, daylight transparent through his skin, he was slender, but impenetrable; he was a dentist, a chemist, and more or less, a jack of all trades.

Patron-Minette indeed is a carnival of abhorrence, a fiendish wall tainted by blood, a social theatre ran by men more than murderers. But why they were never caught, was the absolute riddle and the straight rhetorical question that would soon be served as an answer.

That was all the information he had previously gathered during his harsh solitary days in this cell. And might it be his weak body that hinders him from extracting justice from those of Patron-Minette, his mind surely feels antipathy towards them, and all of the other that's involved. But apparently, being locked in this cell has also had its advantage, an advantage that he had not maximized as a result of his weak physique and withered strength.

Now he just needs to escape this damned cell.

Well she talks to him, at the very least. Perhaps she will never relinquish the fact that she works with criminals, but then perhaps she may consider pity. Pity, which is a feeling that he could use to his benefit to escape the cell and gather Patron-Minette into submission.

And what of her and the owner of Club Montfermeil?

He's sure to be arrested, but could they really trust the government?

Before he fell deeper into his circle of contemplation, there seemed like voices shouting and at a lesser extent, conversing from afar. And this is what he heard:

"We can't have him in this cell forever, decide now!"

"Why won't we just let him rot in here?"

"We can't just have him guarded for the whole time!"

"Relax, relax. My friends, I don't think killing him would be a good idea. It would cause the whole France havoc if they found out that their beloved lawyer of Paris is dead."

"If they find out."

"_If_ they find out," the previous voice who had said the latter statement rephrased.

These exchange between Patron-Minette, and possibly, Thenardier, with all their malignant perceptions that emerged from their crooked brains were enough to make him, or any person in his place, shudder. This sin they have been repeatedly committing is larger than crime, larger than transgressions: it is an act that ferociously claws, without guilt, the helpless and strong alike. A social deformity that bestows horror to whom it is shown, or the witnesses of it.

But Enjolras, even with all of his charms, is capable of being just as distorted; when the need arises.

If Montparnasse is evil, then Enjolras is the devil. If Gueulemer is made of brass, then Enjolras is marble himself. If Babet is a jack of all trades, then Enjolras is a versatile revolutionary. If Claquesous is the night, then Enjolras is hell himself.

And then if Thenardier was tricky, Enjolras is cunning.

This is one point in a man where he's plunged into trouble that all of the cogs in his mind involuntarily works to produce perfections; in which adrenaline could reach to every part of the human body. A certain peril that sets all the horizons in one's brain in motion. It was at the edge of suffering where a person realizes what he could have done earlier, in which he could still do, and it's now or never.

She's the ace that he's holding. And she's about to leave. She's thoroughly preoccupied with thoughts, whatever thoughts that is. And he must persuade her to his plan.

Before she finishes her duty, he must.

"Hey," he rasped, calling the attention of the woman, who's actually no more than a child.

"Huh?" The girl seemed to break from her reverie, casting on him a gaze above suspicion, and her voice is comparable to someone who was snapped out of a daydream. A certain amount of dream exists in every person, yet as time passes by: it is either diminished or increased. Rare it is that you will see someone who balances reverie and reality well.

"Come near, please," he groaned, his tone nothing more than a choked whisper. She seemed to express negligence towards what appeared to be a damaged ethereal being. His beauty and sublimity still hasn't reached to second-rate, in fact, his raw beauty was even more magnified with the stains and patterns of blood that wrote through his skin. Enjolras' words seemed to be a little more strained by the next time he repeats his phrase, "Come near, please." What appears to be weak is brazen, bold, and strong in the interior.

With the request of the beaut, she paced closer to Apollo. With his appearance that seemed to be abandoned into desolation, she at the very least, would heed little of what he requests. The moral corruption and distorted principles have not completely overtaken her as it did with the rest of Patron-Minette, and her father. Such was the beauty of youth and the effect of admiration.

"What is it?" she asked sternly, then bent near to him. Her former position when she offered him the loaf of bread; angled sideways against his chair.

"Nearer," he choked, his head bent down: a strong act that translated to weariness.

She leaned closer, until she breathed against his bare shoulder and he spoke against her neck. If one could see the position they were in they are to think that they are lovers, but if one looks closely, the situation looks rather vital and crucial, as if it's someone's last wish. Either would have happened in a different situation, but none of the two opinions were right.

"Why do-"A dry cough escaped his feeble chest that hindered the speed of his statement, "-Do you work for them?"

She winced and removed her stare from him, and instead, placed it on the metal bars. "We've had this talk before, and you sure know what I've said."

"Consider a dying man's wish?"

"-Dying?"

"It won't be long," he feigned.

"I do this for a living," she sighed, then, turned stern and clenched her fist and jaw, "This is how I live."

"I see," he inhaled through his nose and hissed the words.

"I don't delight in pity," she spat, with the venom that coursed through her voice.

"But do you like it?" She looked at him, as his question seemed a lot more chaste than interrogating.

"Like what?"

"Doing these, and that."

"-These, and that?"

"Yeah," his voice was strained, to the extent that it almost appeared as nothing.

She stood there impatiently, curiosity dawning to the pits of her head. _Where does he want this to end? _Somehow, to her, the conversation was idle, but there were plenty of innuendos that hid through his words, she knew it: because like him, her tongue just had the skill of allusion, the art of persuasion, and sometimes, deceit. In which because of this, she stood from where she squatted and said, "What do you really want to say?" she bore to him an impatient stare, akin to how the deep ocean had enormous waves unseen to naked eye.

With all the strength he could muster, which was added on by the bread he just seized, he strained himself to sit straight and bend his head upwards, so that he is now staring at her: like how they first saw each other. "Help me," he sighed. _Help me escape._

"What? That's ridiculous!" She scoffed, maintained a low exclamation, and perked her left brow.

"Then you would never have to do this!" He swore.

"Don't make me laugh," she chuckled, tilting her head towards the ceiling, and her eyes hovering around the room, which then she crossed both of her arms. "One just doesn't escape this place," she said, coldly.

_No one. No one ever escapes here. Never would, never will._

"Do you have any reason to stay?" Enjolras dared, a gleam of porcelain showed from his lips, an old smirk that has been buried by books and logic. A gleam that shimmered through damp locks and blood-crusted skin.

"That's none of your business," she topped immediately, proceeding towards the cell door to leave.

"-Think about it!" She stopped, both her hands trying to keep her warm. But after a trail of thoughts, Eponine moved to lock the cell's door, in a slow manner, because of preoccupation.

"No more dirty work, no more nightclub work, no more counterfeits," he promised, and he wished that he did, "If you would just help me out of here."

Cold air loomed towards the cell, from the night's tragic figure, from the cold summer night, towards where they were. A scenery shrouded in pensive quietude. In which the wind blew cold against his damp hair, and it blew harsh against her raven tresses.

Those sapphire orbs challenged her, dared her to make a difference.

To take the leap of faith.

And then logic, reasoning, principles, life, lessons, morals, all of them be damned. Never once did an opportunity revealed itself fully, into her eyes, as something so tangible and concrete that it is within her grasp. Damn that Apollo, proposing something impossible to refuse. What of the consequence? But all of them, the ferocity of the repercussion, the consequence of her action, all those thoughts aside.

Is it really worth it?

"Yes," she whispered, to herself, to her consciousness.

He tried to perceive what word came out of her mouth-

-Until she began to unlock the chains that kept him bound. And with the restraints gone, the muscles, the veins, flew back to life; though it was a slow process, but he felt… alive. Being shoved into the situation wherein the real horror of life is being defenseless, he understood more. Or at the very least, that's what he thought.

He tried to stand, his limbs numb with it being static for days, or if he didn't notice, weeks. She helped him gain his balance, and while doing so, she says, "Be quick, just pray to God that whatever you offered is true. Or I do not know what will become of you." It was a threat.

She swiftly maneuvered the scheme for the escape, "Ah!" she raised her brows. And fled towards the trapdoor that appeared as a dirty haystack; in which a vague tunnel was connected.

"Where does this lead?" he grunted, inspecting what the tunnel could his to his senses.

"Just go!" Eponine pushed him inside and closed the trapdoor, which imposed a heavy sound, enough to be heard all-throughout the cell. _Sweet Jesus, what have I done? _She sighed.

* * *

_Her eyes were wild and speculating, ginger tresses swayed through the curves of her neck. She was too good to be here, a concerned woman, who only appeared to care. Where in fact, humanity's conduct, morality, and integrity is being put to question: how could such angels exist? She was only concerned for the well-being of the flood of corruption that rained from Thenardier and Patron-Minette's towards their surroundings. In them, beheld an inner depravity that caused a whirlpool of sin. _

_Where others had to be forced to live like them._

_"Hey, Musichetta," Eponine inspected the cell. Musichetta was the only thing she had closest to a friend, even in her restrained state, she did not deserve to be here. But what is she to do? Nothing._

_She scanned the room, her head poked inside the door, but her body in constant to the outside of the cell. "Musichetta?" Then, she went inside._

_There were broken chains, and a tunnel opened. "Did she dig this?" she thought._

_It was impossible, but nothing could stop someone who's full of determination._

_Musichetta has escaped, but Eponine hadn't. She was afraid like that._

_But even with a tinge of jealousy, she did not hate Musichetta, in fact, she was glad. Estelle was sweet too, but she failed to save her, because she was too afraid._

"I have done something, even at the very least, good," she sighed breathlessly to herself.

* * *

"What was that?"

"A loud bang, must be some old creak of wood that fell again."

"We have to check."

"We have better things to do than check!"

"Montparnasse, you go and check!"

"Fine."

These voices in fact, alerted her, as stealthy as her movements could be, she slowed from the cell and proceeded to meet Patron-Minette. As she moved in light footsteps, epiphany struck her once again. Just how dark the cellars were, was how dark the life that she always lived in was. She had no knowledge of this until she had seen the glimpse of goodness, just even a light glimpse of it through Monsieur Marius.

A small shadow was approaching through the flickering candle lights. It was walking in a fashion that has now appeared to be its signature. How foolish of her, that she once considered marrying Montparnasse. That was back then, when she had not yet met Monsieur Marius, that she thought she might have loved him and he might have felt the same. But the digestion of evil, aroused in him a craving for something worse. He had progressed upward and downward.

"Montparnasse!" she tried to block his sight, by standing in front of him. _More time, I need to buy him time._

"Hey," he expressed disinterest in a deadpan expression, which moved him forward.

"Hey," she tried to smirk at him, in which she raised her right hand to cup his cheek. "What are you doing here?" Eponine neared her body, until it closed the inches that gapped them.

"Careful, my gun's not on safe mode," he warned, looking straight to the narrow passageway of the cellars underground.

Then she caught his hand, but her right hand never released his chin, "Is that supposed to be a threat?" She nibbled at his ear, in a tone of seduction; or at least, an attempted seduction.

"Eponine I have no time for this," he stilled on his position.

"Montparnasse, I know you want it as much as-"

-A louder bang noised through and echoed the narrow hallway, as Montparnasse shoved Eponine aside in urgency, then walked towards where the sound was coming from in a faster pace. Which meant a faster pace for Eponine, _Time, more time. _"Montparnasse, stop!"

"Stop, distracting me Eponine," he grumbled, sparing her a stern glance of authority.

She ran towards him, and blocked his way, "Montparnasse, please," she pleaded, and then held both of his hands again.

"What-"

"Ah, yes, we're going to slaughter him today, or else his body will rot and smell." Thenardier's voice unconsciously interrupted through the conversation between the dandy and Eponine.

"Okay then, after this, shall we celebrate?" Babet marveled through his handkerchief.

"Yes, we will," said Thenardier, coldly.

"Stop." Eponine's voice was low, a dark undertone shaded a voice that used to plead.

"Montparnasse, what's happening over there?" Thenardier straightened himself and strode towards where they were.

"All of you, stop where you are," she spat, venom coursed through her voice. In there, she stood against them, trying to block the path even with her tiny frame.

Thenardier looked at Montparnasse, "What does this mean?" his voice screeched lowly. "Don't tell me you're protecting that bastard?" He chuckled, his latter statement directed towards his daughter.

She imitated his chuckle, "Don't tell me you're killing _that_ bastard."

"Of course," he groaned impatiently, "Now let us through."

"Okay," she grinned and walked off. _Time, that's enough time. Now I just need to get out of here._

She heard more mumbles from Patron-Minette or Thenardier that contained: "What's wrong with that brat." But nevertheless, her father was cunning, he would suspect it, as soon as he sees that he's gone. He would kill her.

She hurried, as fast as what her feet can do, her adrenaline-attached speed took her outside, where he expected him to be gone, but there he was, waiting. "Took you long enough," he crossed both of his arms and leaned to the wall, his strength regenerated a little. Then he offered his hand.

"Took _you _long enough," she grinned and took it.


	8. The End

**Okay, right so,**

**That's it for Bring Me To Life. **

**I'm going to write a sequel in the future.**

**Thanks for all the follows, reviews, and favorites! I love you all.**

**I will now explain why I decided to end it there:**

**I have the whole story planned out, but I don't think I have enough writing skill yet to put them into words you are all expecting, it will heavy and well, a little bit rebellious and personal. Just to be honest with you guys, this fiction was written by me because of my whine against the government in our country. So, as to not be arrested, I'm cutting it at that FOR NOW. I promise when I am skilled enough, I will continue this/**

**I love you alll! I will write a new story, a less rebellious one xD**

**Oh and yeah, read my sinner or saint and review to me whajja think about it!**

**Thnx lovelies!**


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